Sanctuary
by Dickensian812
Summary: The hardest part of captivity was never being alone. Post-"Firewall." Usual disclaimers.


Sanctuary

The hardest part of captivity, the one part that Finch sometimes thought might finally break him, was never being alone.

Since joining forces with John Reese, he had come once again to understand the value of friendship—even, cautiously, to start enjoying it a little. But he had still needed, and fiercely guarded, his time by himself. Even with a partner who loved to pop up at unexpected times and places, the solitude he cherished had never been very hard to come by.

Until, in one horrifying moment, it had been ripped away.

_Someone must have told lies about Joseph K., for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning. . . ._

Now he felt himself shriveling under the gaze that was like a desert sun beating incessantly down.

With no other defense at hand, Finch learned to be quieter than even he had ever been before. Quieter, at least, on the surface. In the deepest reaches of his mind, he stealthily surrounded himself with words, cushions and curtains of words, to shield himself from the glare.

_On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged . . ._

He had tried various other stratagems at first—attempting to shut her out by thinking of favorite pieces of music or art. Recalling some of Grace's paintings was a mistake he made only once.

_It is a truth universally acknowledged . . ._

But even when he tried to focus on less emotionally lacerating works of art, it was no good. Nothing was strong enough but words, the words he had loved and immersed himself in all his life. They came quickly now at his call, ready to comfort, soothe, distract.

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . _

That one almost made him snort aloud—the first part was so grossly inappropriate under the circumstances, the second part so very fitting. But he checked himself. Not unless it was strictly necessary would he make a sound in his captor's presence. Every look or word or gesture of his risked drawing those probing eyes back to him, launching another barrage of questions and taunts. Any reaction, even one she didn't understand, was twisted in her mind into some kind of advantage over him, bringing her the kind of quick delight that Pip's tears brought the young Estella.

Pip, he reflected, was an idiot.

_In these times of ours, though concerning the exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable appearance, with two figures in it, floated on the Thames . . ._

Not even when she went to sleep would he leave his secret sanctuary. Through long nights on lumpy hotel room mattresses, when pain gripped his neck and back until he bit his lip to keep from crying out, he would shut his eyes and let his mind burrow deep under a blanket of words, and be as still as if she were hovering over him, watching him. It was difficult to believe that she wasn't, even in her sleep.

_In the year 1815 Monseigneur Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of Digne. . . ._

For hours, even days, at a time, he lived so intensely inside his books that he could almost feel the soft, worn pages turning in his fingers. He would come back to himself at length with a kind of mental start, astonished to find his hands empty.

_There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. . . ._

He suspected that his captor, for all her brilliance, had no such inner resources. Occasionally—very occasionally—she would look at him with a puzzled expression, as if sensing but not comprehending the vast distance he had managed to put between himself and her. He savored these moments to the full. They tasted of respite . . . almost of victory.

_On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples. . . ._

So he kept his soul alive until the day rescue came—until he saw John's face, flooded with relief, and knew that it mirrored his own. Even then, strong habit brought a few last quiet words to mind.

_. . . in which every chapter is better than the one before._


End file.
